


Che'ri of the Mitth

by Blue_Daddys_Girl



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Thrawn Ascendancy Trilogy - Timothy Zahn, Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: Badass Che'ri, Che'ri Force User, Che'ri simps for Thrawn like the rest of us, Chiss (Star Wars), Chiss Ascendancy (Star Wars), Chiss Skywalkers, Deceptively Cute Che'ri, Gen, Jedi, Martial Arts, Outbound Flight, Plotting, Post Ascendancy trilogy, School Life, Spies & Secret Agents, The Force, Unknown Regions (Star Wars)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:28:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27628168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Daddys_Girl/pseuds/Blue_Daddys_Girl
Summary: When Thrawn leaves the Ascendancy on some secret, superior mission he would not even reveal to the people close to him, Che'ri and Thalias are left heartbroken. He will be gone for years, maybe decades. He might not come back.Thalias has faith in him, and soon accepts their new reality, but Che'ri is not so easily convinced, and the growing girl discovers a power in her that might just give her the edge she'd need to go after Thrawn.
Relationships: Che'ri & ChissOCs, Che'ri & Samakro | Ufsa'mak'ro, Che'ri & Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Thalias & Che'ri
Comments: 57
Kudos: 27





	1. Her last voyage

The Vanguard comes out of hyperspace exactly where it ought to, and no thanks to Che'ri. She releases her grip, opens her eyes, and sighs deeply.   
This is it. If all goes well, this will be her last trip.

'We are above Rentor, as projected, captain,' the helm officer reports. Of course, he's made sure of it, battling Che'ri's inputs at every turn.

'Thank you,' captain Ilsalm replies, and turning to Che'ri, 'I must thank you too. It was an honour to host one such as you on your final journey.'

Che'ri inclines her head. Thalias' hand is on her shoulder, comforting.

'The honour is mine,' she says, 'the Vanguard was an excellent ship for my last days as a sky-walker.'

Ilsalm chuckles. He knows she has served under the infamous Mitth'raw'nuruodo on multiple assignments over the years, and is merely being polite. The honour is truly his. Che'ri is unique after all. A rare sky-walker, holding on to third sight well into her sixteenth year. 

'Bring us to dock,' Ilsalm orders, 'Che'ri, Thalias, if you'll follow me to my office?'

Che'ri tries to keep her head down. She has polished the art of looking dejected. It's not like she's unfamiliar with the feeling, but the staff of the Vanguard, smiling encouragingly at her, are not the people she's trying to convince. 

'I understand you already have an adoptive family lined up?' Ilsalm asks.

'Yes,' Thalias answers for her, hand clenching a little tighter on Che'ri's shoulder, 'we're to meet with syndic Mitth’aro'on down on Rentor. No reason for delay, it has been arranged a few months ago already.'

'I understand,' Ilsalm says, waving them into his office and stepping in after them, 'if you hadn't, I'd have offered you a position among the Boadil. Not only would it be most excellent to call you family, Che'ri; it would make me a hero in the eyes of all the aristocra who pestered me to no end when they heard I'd be hosting your test. I'm glad you're having it your way though. Life is tough enough for sky-walkers.'

'If I'm ever to step on a military ship again, I hope it will be under your care, captain Ilsalm. You've been very kind to me. To both of us.'

Che'ri is not lying. Ilsalm has been incredibly accommodating. Working for him these past few days has reminded her of the quieter patrols she's done under Thrawn. It has made her determination burn ever brighter. She truly is grateful to the Vanguard's captain: his kindness, his readiness to believe in her blindly, his flirtatious banter with Thalias, distracting her–it had all been perfect, and now, finally, he signs the papers freeing her from the military, none the wiser. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Welcome to chapter 1 of _OMFG can't you focus on your longfic you madwoman?_ Hi, how ya doing?!
> 
> I've had this story in my mind for a while now: What if Che'ri did not lose third sight and instead grew into a full fledged force user? What if she told no one? What if she spent years plotting ways to rejoin him?  
> So welcome to Che'ri becomes a Mitth and a total badass! Chapters will be short and sweet and I have no uploading schedule. I have about 3 worked out chapters so far so the start will be fast but I remain focused on my longfic (I swear) atm.


	2. A new name

Syndic Mitth’aro'on isn't sure what he expected when meeting Che'ri, but this isn't it.   
The girl is fully grown, taller than her caregiver and her dark blue skin and light, greyish hair are typical of chiss of Csila arctic descent. Bag slung over her shoulder she walks through the docks with the swagger of a warrior coming ashore at the end of a long rotation. She spots him in the crowd and greets him with an excited wave. He can hear her caregiver, Mitth’ali’astov, telling her to please calm down.

He smiles and waves back at the two women, bemused by the sky-walker's excitement. He's a syndic after all, hardly a title to strike joy in the hearts of young people.

'Thalias,' he says, bowing slightly, 'it is good to meet you in person.'

'Likewise, syndic Mitth’aro'on, thank you for coming to us.'

'Please, you and Che'ri must call me Haroon.'

Che'ri barks a surprised laugh. She rubs her eyes and chuckles as if to some private joke. Haroon stares at her, stumped. Thalias, equally confused but more used to the girl's antics, asks her to explain herself.

'It's just reassuring to meet a Mitth with an unconventional core name. I wasn't really looking forward to becoming "Mitth’che'ri". That's kind of OK, but "Thcher"? No way.'

Haroon laughs then. She's right. "Thcher" would be a dreadful core name. 

'Come, I've got a speeder rental car that'll get us to the patriel's within an hour. That's plenty of time to devise a better core name for you Che'ri.'

The women settle in the car, chatting contentedly with each other about the upcoming ceremony, and he types in the Mitth patriel's coordinates in the car's nav board.  
It is a first for him, a syndic, to come and play taxi for a new adoptee. Of course, it was his suggestion. He'd been thrilled when Thalias had reached out to him. The opportunity to bring Che'ri to the fold of the Mitth family was too good to pass, and the patriarch had agreed to make her ranking distant from the start. Exceptional circumstances for an exceptional sky-walker.   
_Retired_ sky-walker, as of today. 

'How do you feel about leaving the navy, Che'ri? Have you thought about what you wish to study, going forward?'

The women fall silent. Thalias looks at her ward with concern, and Che'ri chews on her lip, pensive. Haroon mentally slaps himself. She might be sixteen and fully matured, but she's just left the only world she remembers since childhood. This question has to have been tactless.  
To his surprise however, Che'ri speaks up with enthusiasm.

'It was an honour to serve, but there is a time for everything. If I'm honest–'

'You're often a little too honest, Che'ri,' Thalias quips in as a warning.

'I've been looking forward to moving on myself,' Che'ri continues, ignoring her. 'All the girls I met who were my age, or even younger, are all long gone. They don't even keep in touch, you know! Not a message to my questis, nothing. I'm dead curious by now. I'm very ready to get into a school and get so busy I'll not want to reach out to my friends!'

There is a trace of bitterness in her voice, but her smile is sincere. Thalias sighs and signs a silent apology at Haroon. He waves it off. He asked, why would he be annoyed with the answer?

'You have a school in mind?'

'Yes. I'd like to apply to Karha'aran.'

Haroon gapes at her. Thalias hides her smile behind her hand. 

'I have the grades for it,' Che'ri insists, as if he'd been doubting her by not saying anything. 

'But Karha'aran trains elite troops and–'

'I know, I know! And the entrance exams are in a month. Thalias said I could get tutors once we're settled? That's true, right?'

'I–er... Sure,' he says, shaking himself out of his stupor. If Che'ri seriously wants to become an elite warrior shadow, who is he to stop her? Retired sky-walkers tend to have it easy. Adoptive families enjoy the privilege of claiming them. Their service already behind them, they usually choose peaceful work, closer to hobbies. The families make sure they lack for nothing. Heck, the only other former sky-walker he knows in person is a baker near his home on Naporar.  
As Che'ri and Thalias start discussing names, he looks down to his questis, and sure enough, beyond the pages detailing her studies, her scores, and her service, often under Thrawn in risky missions that had the syndicure frothing at the mouth, is her physical exam scores. He'd not looked into them, beyond the reassuring green "all clear" status.   
He expends the menu and sees an unusually long list. Number of repetitions for dozens of physical exercises, times on treadmills at different speeds, shooting accuracy tests, it was all there, all the data someone preparing for entry into such a school might want to gather. Haroon has no idea where Karha'aran places the bar, but with these numbers, she could fly into Naporar's Taharim academy with her eyes closed.   
He silently admonishes himself for not paying better attention. Studying Che'ri closer now, it is obvious that she is unusually muscular for a young woman her age and her _"profession"_.  
Haroon thinks of his friend Thabron, who moans to no end about the recruitment duties foisted on him and other aristocra. He claims it is boring and unrewarding, a dull job pushed to the bottom of the political ladder. Maybe that's the case with the average recruit, but Haroon is sure of it now, Che'ri is a gem, and one he'll have great pleasure bragging about.

'What do you think, Haroon?' Thalias is asking.

'I'm sorry, what is it?'

'For my core name. I think I'll go with _Tcheri_.'

'That sounds nice for sure, and close enough to Che'ri. But isn't it a lot like the name of these red berries you find on Rentor?'

'That's what I wondered,' Thalias says, 'they're "tche'hri" right? Aren't they poisonous?'

Che'ri laughs, strands of grey hair tumbling into her face.

'Perfect,' she says, 'Tcheri it is then, and let people wonder if they can take a bite out of me.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright folks, please do NOT get used to this pace of updates, or this length of chapter.  
> Also was shocked to listen to the audiobook recently, where she's called "Sheeree" basically. I had assumed it was more like "Tchayree" but whatever. Now she's truly tch and not sh, but make your head canon what you will!  
> Also also, I find the idea that all chiss come in the same colour pretty ludicrous and boring, so I took some inspiration out of Deer-Head's super fanart and decided to make Tcheri an ["Oxford" chiss](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/7e/ef/3d/7eef3db862bd472d12eced6849b38ffd.jpg), even though I called her arctic.
> 
> I like Haroon. I named him after my uncle Haroun, who used to take me fishing and then put me in a bathtub of water with the carps in it. He also had a pet tarantula. Are all uncles weird or what?  
> Haroon will make a great uncle figure for Tcheri. He might even take her fishing one day.


	3. The Mountain Path

There is a thread inside of her, always thrumming. 

It is not like music, even though the image that comes to her mind is that of an instrument's string, endlessly plucked. It speaks to her in emotions and a forever shifting quality she has no words for. It is the thread sky-walkers take a hold of and follow outward into the universe to guide their ships to safety, like a rope bolted to a mountain side, keeping you safe on a steep, treacherous trail.

The thread is infinite, multi directional. The thrum is constant, inexorable and everlasting.

She used to believe it was changing over time, but while other sky-walkers saw their grasp become ever more tenuous, fumbled for directions, and finally lost the way, she has only grown stronger.

Hands groping in the vastness of the void, she senses it coalescing, bunching in knots, she feels its waft and weave. She lets go of the rope, realising the mountain path itself is the thread. 

Over the years the explores the mountain, folds the fabric of Third and Second Sight into new things without names or labels. She makes excuses for broken objects, ignores people tripping and refrains from finishing anyone else's sentences. She prods for boundaries, and as they fall further and further away from her with each passing year, she plans, and plots, and keeps her own counsel.

When finally she stands on the mountain-top, she sings into the void, asking it: Where is the limit? Is the mountain the limit? Is the sky? How far out is it, and can she reach it?

The Thread thrums in her, comforting. She looks at it, listens to it, but it does not answer, it does not sing back.   
It is not music.


	4. Making Friends

Life at Karha'aran academy is easier than Tcheri expected. She isn't the only student with a big family name, and nobody knows about sky-walkers _at all_. Haroon gave her a past life to learn by heart, and acting it out feels like she's pulling one over on everyone, even her spycraft teacher.

She is surprised at how easy it is to make friends. She'd been afraid her agemates would find her boring, or weird, or be able to tell what's wrong with her at a glance, even when adults can't. Turns out kids wanting to get into Karha'aran are all weird anyway, so she doesn't stand out.

Her momish complains she isn't sending enough news. Tcheri sheepishly writes back, and sends out messages to her friends still in the navy, encouraging little stories and anecdotes to reassure them that life beyond service can be interesting, if you want it to. And her teachers here make it fascinating, no matter what anyone wants. 

Since no amount of make-up will hide a chiss, graduates from Karha'aran are expected to be able to hide who they are, if not _what_ they are. They learn languages, and the art of learning them on the go, piloting, and ways of hijacking any ride, they learn to memorise text and script, to fight and disarm and wrestle, to tease secrets out of people, and to keep their own under duress. They learn acting.  
Last week Tcheri forwarded a flyer to Haroon and Thalias, inviting them to see the play her class is performing during the winter's festival break. She will play the part of an admiral, so after some nervous dithering, she also sent it to Ar'alani.

This week though, she is a wine dealer, and suspiciously, _only_ a wine dealer. She still gathers information, wary of surprise assignments, which are ubiquitous and the least of the pitfalls peppering academic life in Karha'aran. Rumour has it, last year's graduation date was kept secret, and only the students who could find out where and when the ceremony would be held were allowed to graduate. A story the six surly repeaters in fourth year refuse to corroborate.

She thought selling twenty-four casks of Copero fizzle-wine would be a breeze, but things aren't going well. She knows Rawani and Lopanun are a merchant and a caterer respectively, but both turned her away. Lopanun didn't even let her in his room. She senses deception but her persona as a travelling wine merchant does not allow her to probe further.   
She stalks the corridors of her school, pondering her predicament, bowing to teachers and stopping to chat to student she recognises, hoping to glean some tidbits to help her understand what's going on. When she makes it back to her dorm room, she finds Mischa and Khariu deep in conversation. 

'Oh, Tcheri,' Mischa calls out, 'perfect timing, come share your gossip.'

'I only have negative information,' she sighs. 'I know what's _not_ going on. Namely, Rawani and Lopanun are definitely not buying wine.'

Mischa frowns. 'Aren't they buyers by profession?'

'Yes. I've confirmed that, but I've also confirmed they're not buying. Something is going on.'

Khariu taps her pale blue fingers to her lips, humming tonelessly. She has a sharp mind and a scary attention to detail, but not the best people skills. She'll have a great career as an analytics and support officer, Tcheri thinks. The three of them make a great team actually, with Tcheri bringing in the intuitions and flawless lies, and Mischa able to plot and devise amazing plans on the fly. They complement each other well.   
Such impromptu teams aren't encouraged, but there are no rules against them. Many students go solo all four years. Tcheri thinks she got lucky with her dormmates, and already has a night trip to the administrative wing planned, to make sure the official layout for next year's dorm will have them together again. 

'This might have something to do with the debacle at the firing range two days ago,' Khariu says.

'The thing about the Sasara gems you're investigating?'

'Yes. Rawani was seen talking to the Irizi.'

'Ziruan?'

'The only Irizi.'

'You're being rude,' Tcheri says, laughing. Khariu is a Plikh, a family closer to the Mitth than the Irizi, but family hardly matters at the academy – and beyond graduation – and she would not make the joke if Ziruan wasn't a lot pricklier than most about his birth name. 

'Ziruan let something slip about contraband, didn't he?' Mischa says, 'I think he was testing Rawani, but no one knows what his bill is for this week.'

'Ziruan has been talking to _everyone_ ,' Khariu says, dismissive, 'if he isn't billed as a spy and collecting information, I don't know what he's doing.'

'Aren't we all though? And come on, you're harsh, Ziuran wouldn't be this obvious.'

'He would,' Khariu scoffs. 'He was tailing the weapon master yesterday, and wasn't at breakfast this morning.'

'Neither were Samarsang or Thianko.'

'Oh!' Tcheri cries out, dumbstruck. The power inside her purrs, it swirls and harmonises as her memories link up, pieces of information falling into place. It feels right.

'What is it?' Mischa asks, suspicious. She knows Tcheri has a tendency to run away and act on her sudden revelations, often without sharing. 

'I think I know what Ziruan's bill is!'

'Where are you going? Won't you tell us at least?'

'I'll go test my theory first,' Tcheri says, pocketing the colourful notes that each stand up for a hypothetical cask of wine. 'If I'm right you'll be the first to know.'

She darts into the corridor, ignoring her friends calling after her. She stretches herself along the fabric of the building around her, the academy she already knows like the back of her hands, bright with the presence of students and teachers and staff, the unknown signatures of visitors, and among them all, the pulse of Ziuran, in the Western dorm wing. 

She slows down, catches her breath, pats her grey hair down to make herself look composed and dignified like she totally walked here, and knocks on the door. She can feel Ziuran come up to open it, feel his wariness. He is expecting someone. The door opens and Tcheri projects friendliness like a beacon in the night. 

'Hey Ziuran!' She says, smiling brightly, 'can I talk to you for a moment?'

She feels confusion and hesitation clinging to him in cool, droning notes.

'What about, Tcheri?' He asks, casual and friendly but without shifting from his position blocking the entrance. 

'About opportunities.'

Ziuran's almond eyes squint at her, a small smile stretches his lips.

'Sure,' he says, and gestures for her to come in. He closes the door behind her, and she compels herself to relax. The acting they do like this outside of class is not as dangerous as it would be in real life, but wrestling replaces fights to the death, and the loser is disqualified and guaranteed a foul grade. Trips to the infirmary aren't rare.  
She hopes she's right. Ziuran is large, with a thick neck and big hands for cracking skulls. Though he leans into the appearance of brutishness, he's actually the shrewd and studious type. 

'What might these opportunities be?' Ziuran asks, sitting down on a floor cushions and waving for Tcheri to join him on the other side of the low communal table. 

'I have come to the realisation that you and I are playing a non-zero sum game this week.'

'What makes you believe I have any common interest with you?'

'Come on Ziuran, you're smarter than this, don't make me spell it out.'

'If you're not here to peddle your wares, why are you here at all?'

Tcheri smiles, benevolent and calm. She keeps her friendliness all the way up, tries to soothe him. It works with animals, that connection she makes by leaning into emotions. She finds it more difficult on her peers and her teachers, but everything that looks like a skill is worth honing in Tcheri's eyes.

'I fully intend to walk away from your room having sold every cask of wine in my possession. It is in your best interest to buy and if you don't see it, I'll explain why.'

The boy frowns, gauging her from behind furrowed eyebrows. The emotions around him deepen but remain the same. He hesitates. He's curious and guarded. 

'Khariu think you're a spy.'

He chuckles. 

'I don't really value Khariu's opinion, but even then, what would a spy need with I-don't-know-how-many casks of wine?'

'Twenty four. Copero fizzle-wine. Good stuff. You could grease some paws of course, but that's not the point. The point is that you've been talking to everyone very loudly. Being obvious isn't your style though, not at all. Khariu doesn't give you enough credit, but you're canny and crafty. No one who's been paying attention to you would think you're playing a spy! Which is exactly why your bill is that of a _spy_. Playing a _fence_.'

This gets a rise out of him on the invisible plane only Tcheri can sense and navigate. In his defense, Ziuran cocks an eyebrow and looks unimpressed even as his shock ripples through the air. 

'And you know this because?'

Tcheri sighs. Of course he'll make her go through it bit by bit. 

'The Sasara gems, Ziuran. They're at the centre of all the drama this week. Someone has them, and I know who is investigating the theft, and I can map out at least three other people involved, and five inconvenienced. The ones into politics this week are basically living in each other's rooms trying to sort out the fallout. And you're talking to everyone, making silly comments about contraband. Please. It's been five days, so you finally took Thianko aside, didn't you? Because if Thianko believes you're a fence, all the politicos will hear of it before tonight.'

'Sounds like I'm a fence then.'

'Come off it. If you really were one, you wouldn't be half as disinterested in my "wares". Besides, do you think I've been eating my toenails for five days? I have goods to sell–unlike you–and I've reached out to every buyer, official or not. There is no one out there who'll be buying dodgy jewellery off of you. I don't even think you want the gems. I think you want someone to come and ask you questions about making a nice necklace out of raw materials, so you can bag them and raid their dorm. All for the glory of Csilla and the syndicure, of course.'

Ziuran gapes at her. Emboldened, she goes on with her threat-ladened offer. 

'You buy my wine, you can look like you have done your job as a fence, look authentic. You can grease paws, slip some goods around, and in exchange, I'll be grateful. I'm friends with the inspector on the Sasara case. I can slip you a name if I hear it. And I can say to anyone who'll listen that I had to "rely on a fence" to complete my bill and sell my wine.'

She doesn't mention the fact she can sell _him_ out too. She doesn't need to say it. Ziuran's expression clouds as he comes to that conclusion on his own. 

'What keeps me from "wringing" your neck right now?' he asks, making quotation marks with thick fingers. 

Tcheri drops the smiles and cuts off all pretence of friendliness. She leans forward and speaks in a low, emotionless voice.

'I don't know what kind of game you think we're playing here, Ziuran. I'm not asking this as a wine dealer. My goal is to graduate with flying colours and get offered the position I want without me even needing to ask. Put me in a deadlock now, disqualify me, and watch me take you down with me for practice. Don't even bother telling me the rules say once we're out we can't involve ourselves in the game. The rules are guidelines. Breaking them is only punished if you get caught. I'd like to direct you now to my squeaky clean record. Make of it what you will.'

Ziuran cracks his fingers one by one as he mulls over her little speech. Finally, the air clears, they resonate with each other. He grins at her, pleased.

'Looks like I'll be buying your wine and looking forward to many more fruitful _opportunities_ with you in the future.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya! This took some serious editing, but my main Thrawn fic is turning into such a puzzle, I'm really enjoying the break Tcheri offers. She remains my side gig, fret not.  
> Don't expect chapters to be this long and this structured very often. This will stay short and moody. Right until it isn't, I guess... Just like the Tactician was never going to be a long fic... *sigh*. Next chapter will be short and fluffy and involve some major tropes, lightly twisted.  
> See you then!


	5. What Dark Dreams

The first time she dreams of him, he is being attacked by pink faced aliens in dark coats and hoods. Their black hands pummel him. They look like puppets, lit by the night sky above them, aglow with looming spires interspersed with the endless flow of flying cars and ships, all ignoring the lethal dance going on under them.   
She feels the pain in her ribs as a blow lands there, feels the cold anger that clenches her - _his_ \- teeth. She strikes back, again and again. Another alien steps in to help him, yelling in a foreign language.  
Tcheri's outrage colours her fear down to a deep purple haze.

She wakes in a sweat, and thinks of the incident for days.

The dreams come and go. For a long time she isn't sure of their meaning. When she wakes up to the cold certainty of Thalias' imminent death, she runs out of her room with her tunic still half over her head and her boots in hand. Within an hour she has secured a leave of absence and is on a ship to Haroon's home, a mansion really, where Thalias has taken residence. 

She makes excuses of course, and nudges and pleads, even begs. So Thalias stays with her on Naporar instead of taking a trip up to Csilla. 

When news of the shuttle's explosion hits the net, Tcheri doesn't need to act shocked. Thalias squeezes her hand, livid. Haroon looks at her, worried, impressed, thoughtful. 

In the evening he comes to her, hands her a hot mug of spiceleaf, spiked with kimpa liqueur. They sit in silence on his verranda, looking at the stars above them, muddled by the flickering lights of space traffic. 

'Did you know?' he asks. 

Tcheri looks down at him from her mountain top. She has retreated there on a quest for answers and guidance. The thrum of power in her, the one she has started to call "the Sight", pounds into her ears, loud and uncomfortable. _Careful_ , it means to say, _careful_. 

But she can read Haroon like an open book. He has grown to love her, much like a daughter. The bond they share is a much simpler one than what she developed with Thrawn. She feels warmth, concern and affection coursing through it, but are those feelings sufficient to bear the weight of her secrets? Maybe a single one, she decides.

She sighs, honest about her feelings if nothing else. 

'I haven't told you, or anyone,' she says, starring into her mug, 'but even after I lost Third Sight, some things stayed behind. Little things, like... before I turn a corner, if someone is about to bump into me, I can sense it just in time. If someone behind me is about to call my name, I can sort of know. Or when there is a big surprise test in the morning, I'll have a nightmare before it. That's common to all sky-walkers, and doesn't relate to our job at all. I don't know if it goes away for others, but it hasn't for me. It's never much you know, but that night, I woke up so convinced she was going to die, that something horrible would happen... I ran here without thinking.'

Haroon is pensive for a moment and he sips his own drink in silence. It is a quality in him she cherishes. The man is comfortable taking his time to think before answering her. He never rushes to easy reassurances or trite sayings to pacify her. 

'I know little of sky-walkers,' he admits, 'beyond what my rank warrants. I've never worked with one or seen one work. I have never been allowed on the bridge of a ship when we were using one. So my experience is limited to you, Thalias, and then Khiaran, do you remember? At the bakery.'

'Yes! Did she...'

'Well, she never shared stories of nightmares or anything like that with me. But when she knew I knew, she started making little jokes. She said once that the reason her bread is the best on Naporar is because Third Sight still helps raise the loaves!' He chuckles and turns a reassuring smile to Tcheri, 'I'm sure having remnents of your power is not unusual. I can look into it for you if you'd like.'

'That would be nice. But– I wouldn't want you to get into trouble. Or me, for that matter.'

She doubts she would get in trouble for still having prescient nightmares. She knows for a fact Sky-walkers still have them even as their powers wane. But she doesn't want any attention directed towards her, not when her dreams are but the tip of a mighty iceberg. 

'Tcheri, don't let your success at Karha'aran get to your head. I'm a syndic, not a babe in swaddling. They don't teach you half the tricks we use in politics.'

He extends his arm to wrap around her. She scoots closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder.

'I don't want Thalias to know,' she murmurs, inflecting her voice with worry, and letting Haroon misinterpret its source. 

'Of course. I'll see what I can learn. On your side, why don't you keep a journal on your questis? When you have dreams, write them down. We can use the data. And please, if you dream of me, give me a call. I'll take your words to heart!'

She chuckles and makes promises, not all of them sincere.

* * *

When she dreams of him again, he has a gun pointed to her-his-chest. Another pink faced alien menacing him, others look up to him, dramatic expressions warping their chiss-like features.  
There is a confrontation, an enormous alien appears, and though she wants to lash out, to run up the pillars of his legs to stomp into his chest and kick his nose into his brains, she is immobile, cornered, her hands on metal bars. _Trapped_.

She wakes with a gasp and grinds her teeth as her eyes roll wild, streamers of dream visions still clinging to her consciousness. 

'Are you OK?' Mischa asks, head poking out of the top bunk.

Tcheri's jaws are too clenched to answer, sweat pooling in her eyes, making them sting. Mischa groans and clambers down the ladder. She sits on the edge of Tcheri's bed, making soothing noises and rubbing Tcheri's shoulder until her breathing calms down.

'You were calling his name again.'

Tcheri starts, opens her mouth to deny any name calling, but closes it under the weight of Mischa's long suffering glare.

'I've shared your room for two years, never mentioned it to anyone, not even to you. You'd think you'd trust me.'

But trust doesn't come easy, in a place like this, and least of all for Tcheri.  
Mischa lifts the sheet and slides in next to her, in the skin-to-skin heat sharing hug that comes so naturally to the children of cold Csilla. She smooths her friend's hair, the grey strands darkened by sweat and plastered to her brow.

'Is this Thrawn another Mitth?' she asks, not caring how poorly the question might be received. 

'There are plenty of families with names ending in "th",' Tcheri mumbles, refusing to meet Mischa's eyes. 

'I'm sure there are. But it would make sense for you to worry about a family member. It's worry right? Not bad memories?'

Tcheri feels Mischa's own worry wafting against her, sincere and unabashed. 

'He's gone,' she says. In Cheunh, there is no doubt that this _gone_ is that of someone travelling far away, out of reach, but very much alive. She clings to the notion desperately, pushing against the half remembered feel of metal bars in her grip. He has to be _gone_ , and not that other gone.

'Thrawn?'

She nods, her chin bumping against Mischa's head. They giggle and shift around in the small bed. Across the room Khariu stirs in her sleep. 

'Is he related to you? Is that why you miss him and dream of him? Can you reach out to him?'

'He's special. He taught me a lot. I do miss him,' she says, the admission burning a hole in her chest, the power in her roiling in dark currents. 'I can't reach out to him.'

'Is he like us?'

Trust Mischa to see to the heart of it.

'Yes. A lot like us.'

And in a way, he really is. Gone on a secret mission, without an army at his back, or even a ship. More like a Chiss Shadow and nothing like a commander or admiral. Alone among pink faced aliens, forever in danger.

'He'll be fine,' Mischa whispers, squeezing Tcheri in a reassuring embrace. 'If he taught _you_ anything, there is no way he isn't fine. He'll come back and you'll see him again soon.'

'You're right. It's just silly nightmares,' Tcheri says, closing her eyes. 'Thank you.'

Mischa hums, a little tune to put them back to sleep, and Tcheri lets herself be lulled, with Mischa in her arms, she wades back into the seas of sleep, lets their murky waters sweep over her head, hoping no more monsters lay in wait for her in their depth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me : struggles for 11 days to write fluffy-esque dialogue involving Thrawn.  
> Also Me, the day after posting : Ah, nice. Maybe I can rest now, or– MAYBE I CAN POUND 1.4K+ WORDS OF TCHERI ANGST AS EASILY AS BREATHING.
> 
> Well. That's that.


	6. The One Time Librarian

Tcheri has always preferred art and drawing to books and reading and while she's never grown to _enjoy_ reading, she has definitely come to value it.  
Books are an excellent repository for secrets. Many things can be hidden within the lengthy pages of an academic tome, the countless entries of records. Many others can be plucked out with enough patience and determination (or a good algorithm). They're also silent, don't ask questions, and will not denounce you for reading them, making them excellent allies, if and when they yield information.

Tcheri has not been as lucky as she hoped with her academy's library. She's gone through it and moved on to the Naporar Central Library. There she makes her way through the stacks as the months go by, earning herself an ironic reputation as a bookworm. She leans into her relationship with Haroon, asks him for rarer books and archival access codes. The man indulges her, pleased to see her read broadly. True to his word he has found some information on sky-walker powers, but they all concern second sight. She thanks him and reads on, looking for mentions of a fourth or fifth sight–assuming the first is common vision.  
She looks for references or hints of people able to move objects with their minds, sense the feelings of others, enhanced physical performance... She tries to find something about dream-visions and foresight. She even reads books on scrying and reading destiny in the cast of bone dice and fallen avian carcasses.   
She finds a lot of superstitions and nothing useful. Though her newfound ability to read someone's "love life" in the splatter of blood drops is all the rage for a solid week at the academy, until everyone has a sore thumb and much to think about. 

Rather than be discouraged, Tcheri makes plans to access more "guarded" sources of knowledge, and focuses in the meantime on her other interests: Thrawn, Ar'Alani, their careers, the Grysk, and records of pink skinned aliens in the chaos and beyond. She pores through old scouting reports, bestiaries and exohistory. She grows frustrated with the apparent disinterest of chiss scholars for anything lying beyond the borders of the Ascendancy.  
She begs more help of Haroon. Through him she obtains military transcripts and minutes of syndicure meetings. He doesn't mind her apparent obsession with Thrawn. He thinks she suffers from hero worship due to their work together, him teaching her to pilot, saving her life on multiple occasions. He thinks he understands, and Tcheri is careful never to disillusion him. He knows her temperament is radically opposed to Thrawn's, and doesn't expect her to get into the type of mischief he was infamous for.   
Well, she doesn't either. She's hoping to become a trusted shadow, not a rule breaking genius commander. So really, she isn't lying. 

By the time her forgery class rolls into its practical workshop phase, Tcheri is ready to branch out and do some more serious digging.   
The teacher, a small man with a strong Ool accent that a few student speculate is entirely faked for the fun of it, leaves them free to decide what documents they forge during his class, and instead grades the "souvenirs" they will bring back from their "practical trips".  
They have four days to make their forgeries and a whole week to go and acquire their chosen loot, which, once graded, will be returned along with a detailed security report, sealed by the academy.  
As a result, the forgery class is always taught on a random month to keep often-targeted institutions and companies on their toes. Security throughout Naporar is notoriously tight due to many past embarrassments caused by Karha'aran students.

'Where are you going for this assignment?' Mischa asks, fingers massaging a dark dye into Tcheri's scalp.

'I can't tell you. You know I can't.'

'I thought we were friends,' Mischa says, sadness and disappointment laced thick in her words.

'You know you can't pull the friend card on other shadow trainees, right?'

Mischa grunts, and Tcheri can tell she's amused from the flow of emotions rolling off of her. She's exhilarated too, her aura pulsing brightly.

'Seems to me like you're the one who wants to tell me all about your upcoming mission.'

'I really do, actually. I really, really want to brag.'

'Bragging beforehand? Sounds risky...'

'Close your eyes,' Mischa orders her as she turns the water back on to wash the dye off. 'I want to brag about the key I already pawned and duplicated, not about what I'll get from its use. I want to catch something simple. The beauty is in the key.'

'Oh? Did you go after someone famous or something?'

Mischa bites on her lip, clearly torn over what to say and what to keep for herself. Their training turns conversations into such unnecessary minefields. 

'I got the director,' she says in the end, deciding to trust her friend. 

'You mean... _Our_ director?'

'Uhuh.'

'Oh wow, OK. Bragging rights earned. You're sure it's authentic, whatever you got from him?'

'Yeah. I tried it. And then... Aah, I guess I can't tell you all that much more, can I?'

'Wait, have you already-'

'I can't tell you,' Mischa says in a wail that implies she very much wants to, and to please not push her further as she will most certainly break.

Tcheri looks at her reflection, so different with her hair dyed black.

'Thanks friend,' she says, 'you've done a great job with this.' She passes for a Noris chiss, dark skinned and dark haired. As intended for her new backstory. 'I owe you one, so I'll give you a hint: I'm off to Csilla.'

Mischa laughs, incredulous.

'What's on Csilla that's easier to get than on Naporar?'

'It's not about being easier,' Tcheri replies with a smile, 'it's about being interesting.'

* * *

Tcheri has her photo taken, applies it to her forged ID and throughout her digital files. She does a final check, signs off at the academy's front desk and promptly jumps on the next public shuttle to Csilla. She could have gone by a private Mitth ship, or hitched a ride with Thalias in two days time, but Tcheri needs to be believable. From the moment she enters the tube system on Naporar in her grey and white suit, briefcase under her arm, small bag of necessities over her shoulders, she is Mayarani, a syndical librarian from Noris.  
She didn't lie to Mischa either. She is after documents that _interest_ her. Documents she hopes to find in restricted syndical archives. She would rather not have Haroon or Thalias wonder at her obsession. Nor any of the Mitth. She's acting on her own, in more ways than one, finally able to make use of the unique freedom granted by a Karha'aran education.

When she arrives on Csilla she plays the lost visitor with a couple of people, getting directions, asking which tube to take, _taxicars are so expensive here after all!_ Finally she walks into the Csilla Syndical Library, her chin high, her eyes sparkling with provincial awe and excitement. 

'Gorgeous building,' she gushes to the secretary reviewing her documents, 'you should see the stone box they keep us in on Noris.'

'I can imagine,' the employee says distractedly. The plaque on her desk announces her as Milami. 'I'm not seeing you on the list...'

'Ah, I don't have an appointment slot or anything,' Tcheri–or rather Mayarani–exclaims as if being brought back down from her architectural reverie. 'We made a formal demand for archival time without a specific date because the situation was so dire, there was no planning when I could take the time off...'

The secretary looks up at her now, confused. 'What situation?'

Tcheri raises her eyebrows, a perfect show of surprise, what with it being honest. She expected the local staff to know about "the situation" on Noris. 

'There was a pretty big fire in our dry storage!' She takes out her questis, taps at it, quickly pulling out pictures of the fire and showing them to the woman. 'It was no joke, though no one was injured, we've been neck deep in enquiries and data recovery since then.'

'Huh, that looks really nasty,' Milami agrees with a sympathetic grimace. She might be at the front desk today, but she's a librarian by profession. The sight of a burning library is sure to be distressing. 'Can't believe I haven't heard!'

Tcheri gives her a wry smile. 

'Guess Noris really is the bottom of nowhere.'

'Oh no, you're fine! I'm sorry, I'm the one who should keep better informed. I'm from Rentor, so I know what that's like...' she says, a faint blush tingeing her pale cheeks. 'I understand why you aren't on the day's list, but can I find you somewhere in my system?'

'I don't know, it was arranged through messages, I wasn't given anything. It's only a manual integrity backup check after all.'

'Oh! You're not making archival copies?'

'No, no!' Tcheri says with an exaggerated look of horror, 'I'd be here for weeks! If my report looks bad we'd send someone for that eventually, but we'd book that well in advance.'

The secretary nods along. It all makes sense–of course it does–Karha'aran doesn't tolerate sloppy research in its students, and Tcheri doesn't tolerate it in herself either.

'How about I make you a day pass then? Just report to the desk when you're done, we'll take the pass back, and we can make you a fresh one tomorrow if you need more time.'

'Sounds lovely,' Tcheri agrees with a warm smile. She watches Milami make her pass and asks her about the best places around for a food break. She takes notes of her suggestions, nodding along happily, intending to steer clear of them all. Unwise to give people time and excuses to poke at her backstory over lunch conversation.

Finally Tcheri pockets her pass and forged documents, and walks into the famously secretive Csilla Syndical Archive, a data scanner nestled in her briefcase and a whole day to make books and reports sing their sweet secrets...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last fic of 2020! It might have been a shit year for most everything, but it sure has been a great year for fanfiction... For those of us abruptly having the time to write or read.  
> These last three months were my first steps writing fanfiction and it has been a blast thanks to everyone. It has been super fun, hard at times but always incredibly instructive. Thanks a lot to YOU all in particular, because you're reading the A/N on an Ascendancy based genfic, so you guys are the real stars, and I love you.  
> Yes, even you, the secretive, no-comment reader! Your hit makes me happy, and I hope Tcheri makes you happy too, now and until her story is all told!  
> See you all on the flip side! Happy New Year and may 2021 treat you well!


	7. Beneficial Encounters

_You'll find that a spy's work entails a lot of tedium_ had been instructor Afionura's opening comment in his first spycraft class. He repeated the sentence often enough after that, like a mantra he wanted to drill in his students' heads. _If you can't take it now, it's not too late to transfer to Taharim._

Tcheri can take tedium well enough. She selects the files she wants to copy, and retreats behind glazed eyes, mechanically pantomiming Mayarani's work. There is safety and security behind the repetitiveness of the task. She moves from one data pillar to the next, browsing, hoping for a lucky find, biding her time.  
An hour passes, and another, before she finally reaches a data-bank that contains something of interest: military reports. There is a master file for court-martials, in which she can browse by names and refine by years.

Mitth'raw'nuruodo is right there. She taps the name and has to refrain from whistling at the length of the unfolding list. It is immediately apparent that she is unaware of several of these, particularly the older ones.  
Tcheri frowns. The list is made of dates and reference numbers and she notices one in particular, a court-martial that took place bare months before Thrawn entered her life. To her chagrin, the reference numbers lead her to pass locked files. She could copy them, but breaking syndical level encryption is far beyond her current skills.

'Ah, will you be much longer?'

Tcheri's blood runs cold. How could she be so engrossed that she'd fail to sense someone approaching? She turns to face the newcomer, and it's all she can do not to gape. What are the chances, she thinks, mind reeling, of bumping into someone she knows, here and now?   
The man in front of her is wearing an admiralty's uniform and a commander's insignia on his collar. Though he's aged and now sports a scar across his left temple and scalp, sprouting strands of white hair along its path, Ufsa'mak'ro is still perfectly recognisable.

Tcheri forces herself to breath in, to smile. She looks nothing like the child Samakro was familiar with. She must believe in her own abilities.   
She dips her head in a respectful bow, embracing her librarian persona with renewed ferocity.

'Do you need this data-bank sir?' She asks, leaning into her Noris accent. 'The analysis is taking some time. I can interrupt it at the end of the next section for you.'

Samakro frowns at her, but to Tcheri's relief, it's a look of curiosity, not the squint-eyed scrutiny of someone trying to place a face. 

'What analysis?' He asks, the rest of his questions hanging silently in the air between them. 

'Ah– these files are very corrupted–' She takes a deep breath, gives a shy smile to the man, and starts again. 'My name is Enma'yar'anim. I came over from Noris for a manual report of files we've lost. This data bank has a lot of those, that's why it's taking me so long.'

'Oh, I see. I've heard about a fire.'

'That's the one!' She says excitedly. 'I was surprised the librarian at the entrance hadn't heard– Well anyway, like I said, if you'll give me another... forty seconds, I'll be able to let you use it.'

'That would be great, thank you.'

Tcheri looks back to the questis in her hands. She reaches out with her senses, invisible fingers brushing the surface of Samakro's mind. She discerns his patience, woven through with threads of fatigue, concern and worry. His thinking is blurred, indistinct, distracted by the affairs of his new career, not concerned by the unassuming young woman in front of him.   
She feels her own anxiety ebb and flow through her like a capricious sea, sending chills down her spine, numbing her fingers, leaving the taste of cold iron on her tongue.   
If he recognises her here, if he questions her too much, the consequences to her plans-her long term plans-would be catastrophic. On the other hand, if he doesn't suspect anything, there is one thing she can attempt... She considers the implications, thinking furiously ahead. If he catches her, or his questis is somehow equipped to detect copy-snoops... Well... But if he _doesn't_ , she could probably use him to access the locked files.   
In the end, it comes down to how much she is willing to risk, in her quest for information.

'All yours,' she says, polite and cheerful. A single note reverberates through her mind, crystal clear, approving, encouraging, as her hand moves as if with a will of its own, presenting Samakro with her connecting cable. 

He accepts it, steps into her place and connects his questis, starting his transfer in silence.   
She looks at him, trying to smother her anxiety, but no alarm chimes, and Samakro doesn't look up. It isn't lost on Tcheri that the proud Ufsa has not deigned to introduce himself to her, to _Mayarani_. When she'd worked with him under Thrawn, he'd been gentle and considerate. With her, at least. In any other setting, she would have gladly walked up to him and reminded him of their acquaintances. She holds no grudges against _first officer_ Samakro.   
_Commander_ Samakro however seems a different sort of man. You truly don't know people until you've known them as strangers, Tcheri thinks bitterly.  
Well, not that she's complaining really.

'Thank you, I'm all done,' Samakro says, handing Tcheri back the connector cable. 'You still have a lot ahead of you?'

'Ah, sorry, what?'

He waves a hand at the room. 'It'll take you a while going through all of these, I presume.'

_Now he makes small talk?_

'It's alright, I'm almost done with this side of the room.' She plugs her questis back in and gives Samakro a studied smile, willing him to please just go away. 'The person who'll take a real long while is the one coming after me for the hard copies.' And if she's successful, that person would have to go through every databank with a fine comb and replace or upgrade all sorts of security checks. She truly doesn't envy them, but this is an assignment. They can blame her professor. 

Samakro chuckles, wishes her best speed and luck, and with a casual nod finally walks away, none the wiser. 

Tcheri does not breathe a sigh of relief. She does not dare to indulge in any sense of victory or triumph, not even as the snoop present in her cable grants her access to the files under Commander Ufsa'mak'ro's clearance.   
She leans into the Sight, pushing outward, blind hands groping until she has touched every mind, every trace of presence in the rooms around her. She can feel Samakro stepping outside the building, and the secretary, Milami, drowsing behind the front desk. There are three people in the room she's in, all busy and seated behind lecterns, and a dozen in offices above her in upper floors.   
It is like a juggling act, to keep her mind aware of every movement in her vicinity while making her way through the architecture of folders and files on her questis. A lot like following two conversations at once.   
Armed with Samakro's codes, she dives back into Thrawn's list of court-martials. The numbers now open up, records blooming like dangerous flowers, daring her to come and pluck them.

She selects the year she turned nine, the year she piloted her first ship, took part in an action against an enemy of the Ascendancy. The year they'd met. 

The title is in bold under her stiff fingers. _Outbound Flight and Vagaari massacre._

She scans the report, her grip on the Sight wavering with every new word jumping to her attention.

Twenty-four chiss casualties. Alien ship Outbound Flight, malfunctioned and vanished with Syndic Mitth'ras'safis aboard. _Presumed dead_.

Shivers crawl up her spine, looking at that pale-skinned face, with the slanted eyes, the stern set of the mouth, so familiar. She taps his name and the the file expands. It's right there: born Kivu’ras’safis.   
_Thrawn's blood brother._

But there are more images claiming her attention: swarms of ships, reports of interactions and alliances with new aliens, pink faced and oh-so familiar. _Humans_ , she reads. From _K'rellia_.

And under that, a single word, leading to a file locked beyond Samakro's level of clearance.

 _Jedi_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. As I warned early on, this is definitely a side fic, and Tactician does come first. A little bit more of the plot has coalesced for this fic, but I'm still currently taking chapters one at a time when the inspiration strikes! It'll be my top priority once Tactician comes to an end.


End file.
